think about my own responsibility. I can’t help it. My white T-shirt was soaked in fresh blood. I washed the blood away with these hands, so much blood the sink turned red. I imagine I’ll be held responsible for all that blood. I try to picture myself being tried in a court, my accusers doggedly trying to pin the blame on me, angrily pointing fingers and glaring at me. I insist that you can’t be held responsible for something you can’t remember. I don’t have any idea what really took place, I tell them. But they counter with this: “It doesn’t matter whose dream it started out as, you have the
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